


A Fistful of Drabbles

by T Verano (t_verano)



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: Community: sentinel_thurs, Gen, M/M, Sentinel Thursday, Various unrelated drabbles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-05-07
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2020-02-29 06:26:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18773086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_verano/pseuds/T%20Verano
Summary: A resting place for my various Sentinel drabbles (of the classic, 100-word type, along with some 200-word double drabbles).





	1. The Weather Inside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as a birthday gift for janedavitt.

He has paint in his hair. Little white flecks scattered everywhere — his hair, his clothes, the skin that isn't covered by clothes, his earrings. Looks like he's been standing in a blizzard.

A little warm in here for snow, though.

He puts his paintbrush down and smiles at you. When did he get flecks of paint on his _lips_ , for chrissake? And now your thumb's there, smoothing the flecks off, without your permission. Without _his_ permission.

Still, he doesn't seem to mind. Doesn't seem to mind at all.

You were wrong. It's a _lot_ too warm in here for snow.


	2. Mornings After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post SenToo
> 
> Written for slipperieslope's Moonridge auction drabble prompt challenge of "Jim or Blair looking at each other, or a canon character looking at the two of them together".

The shallow light of six a.m. covers his face like water. His skin's gray under it. His eyes aren't open and his mouth isn't moving, his muscles are slack, and the memory's just too goddamn _close_. Twice, you've nearly bruised him waking him up, needing too badly to be gentle, capturing his mouth without mercy. 

The same way he died on you. Without mercy.

The mornings you can bear to wait, you watch him; until your looking at him becomes him awake, looking back at you. And then nobody's drowning. 

Not in water, anyway. Just in each other.

 _Alive_.


	3. Looking Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A direct and shameless result of janedavitt"'s memorable Prisoner X vid-clip post of Jim's back and shoulders as he's standing in front of the desk.
> 
> If you haven't seen the clip, this won't make much sense. Probably won't if you _have,_ either. (A mind is a terrible thing to get stuck in a vid-clip loop.)
> 
> This is seriously not anything, just some self-indulgent fun. (Which today -- apparently -- involves zero substance, mondo incoherence, and a complete and breezy disregard for every writing rule I've ever heard of. And lots and lots of dashes.)

_Late._ Right. Simon’s office. Jim’s already there, Jim’s standing there –

standing -

hands behind his back, shoulders like...

like that...

just –

like...

_(Hey, forgot something, back in a minute)_

man, last night - Jim, the way he - 

_down, boy_    not here    _Pavlov's dog,_ Jesus

_Jesus_

get a grip – fuck, not like _that,_ not like – jacking off in the men's room at cop central is _not_ \- Jim'll fucking have a – 

_God,_ Jim standing there, hands behind his -

just like – 

well, clothes on this time, but _shit_ – 

_gotta_ –

not here    not here    not now   not

now nownownow – _gonna_ -

 _fuck_ – somebody’s com–

 _coming_ \- Jesus, _Jim –_


	4. This Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For sara_merry99 , with many thanks for being so thoughtful and kind and helpful.

That sound, low in his throat.

That throat. 

Head flung back, offering. Eyes closed. 

Muscles quivering. Body chemistry changing, charging the air around him. Pulse increasing, blood pressure rising, skin flushing.

_Exposed._

Exposed, so easily. For you.

_Yours._

Yours for taking. Your mouth against the pulse in his throat, his heartbeat.

_Yours._

So exposed.

He's never been good at this. Picks losers, plays games, fucks up, gets left. Leaves. _No more._

_No._ This time he stays. This time he gets what he hasn't had before, gets what he needs, what he's offering you. Gets it all. 

Gets you. Exposed.

_His._


	5. Sweetheart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first-born drabble, written as a thank-you for janedavitt for sharing the joy so generously.

Sacrificed, too often, to what he has to do.

To what he is.

But part of his territory. And he takes care, really tries to take care, of - 

Only that never seems to work, reliably. Never has, probably never will.

And every scrape and dent hurts...

...reproaches. Sometimes he can't bear to look. Can't bear to see. He just wants it fixed.

His fault, those scrapes. And worse; because if he was somebody else, _bullets_ wouldn't come anywhere near - 

Or at least the fuzzy dice wouldn't be loaded the wrong way.

But he can't just... _walk._ Not now.

Not anymore.


	6. Assertion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My (other) first-born drabble, written as a thank-you for janedavitt for sharing the joy so generously.

You unlock the door, push him inside. He's still not paying attention; mouth in constant motion, saying shit all. (Top hinge on the damn door's whining, too, and to more purpose.)

He's about to walk away from you, toward a cold beer, toward fucking normal. And Fuck. _That._

You don't need to think about the moves. Grab, spin and pin. He'll have bruises from the back of the door, from your hands. Bruises to go with the other bruises, the other fucking stupid bruises from today.

His mouth's inches from yours.

Time to make it clear.

_He's not going anywhere._


	7. Trust Is Like A Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Sentinel Thursday challenge 599: mirror.
> 
>  
> 
> _Trust is like a mirror, you can fix it if it's broken, but you can still see the crack in that motherfucker's reflection. ~ Lady Gaga_

It keeps getting mended: Blair doesn't go to Borneo; Gabe... happens; Blair fucking _dies_ and comes back; Blair holds a press conference. Beer and basketball are shared. The job is shared. Danger is shared. Scrambled eggs are shared. The cracks in the mirror get mended.

You've gotten used to them. Used to the mended cracks in your trust. 

What you don't think about, ever, is how all of those mended cracks have changed the Blair you see — the Blair you _expect_ to see. 

Flaws in the mirror. Reflecting the truth?

Or warping the truth? 

You don't think about that. Ever.


	8. They'll Never Find the Body

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Sentinel Thursday Challenge 598: banana.
> 
> A triple drabble without much to say for itself. Because [Banana slugs.](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Banana_slug)

Jim paused. Blair had stopped hiking to crouch at the edge of the trail, his gaze on one of the coastal rainforest's more distinctive inhabitants. "You know these guys can be used as a source of protein?" he asked Jim. 

No, Jim hadn't known that fascinating fact - and he was less than enthusiastic about knowing it now. Before he could frame a sufficiently discouraging answer, however, Blair was talking again (of course he was). "The Yurok used to eat these, and so did German settlers in northern California around the turn of the century."

Jim eyed the nine-inch yellow creature Blair was referring to, observed the path of slime it was leaving behind itself on its slow progress across the trail, and winced. The crash course in rainforest cuisine he'd received during his time with the Chopec hadn't - thankfully - covered slugs. "I think I'd prefer bratwurst," he replied. 

Blair looked up, grinning. "You're not alone in that. There's a festival in northern California with slug races and a cook-off, which is mostly about who can come up with the least repulsive recipe. Apparently, even after you get rid of the slime, banana slugs leave something to be desired in the taste department."

"Hard to imagine," Jim said dryly. He cleared his throat. "Exhilarating as this slug-watching is, Chief, we'd better hit the trail if we want to get to our campsite before dark."

With a final glance at the bright yellow slime factory beside his hiking boots, Blair stood. A wicked grin spread across his face. "You know, Jim, I've got an interesting recipe..."

Jim narrowed his eyes. "They'll never find your body, Chief."

Blair laughed. As they headed up the trail, Jim looked back at what he was _not_ having for dinner. 

He could've sworn the slug was smirking.


	9. Empathy For The Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for Sentinel Thursday challenge 580: "empathic"
> 
> Double drabble; a little post-Sen-too angst. Inspired by a Stones song title.

Nobody else gets it, can ever get it. Not anymore. The woman who did get it is lost to everything - to herself, to the world.

To him.

Jim thinks of snarling jaguars appearing out of thin air, embodiments of danger that no one else can see. Of cryptic, surreal messages in shades of blue. Of eyes - of physical eyes, of symbolic eyes - that see too far, yet never seem to see far enough. 

Of perfect, freeing _need,_ as relentless as an incoming tide.

Need. Pain. Obsession. A world spun out of control in ways only the two of them will ever - could ever - know.

Beauty only the two of them could ever know. Ecstasy... the potential for an ecstasy offered only to them, to the two of them.

What she did before this doesn't matter. It hasn't mattered since those moments - or was it a lifetime? - spent together on an (almost) deserted beach, when like called out to like, when need called out to need. 

Jim sees what should have been, sees the loss - the pointless _waste_ \- and mourns, for her, for himself. 

He doesn't see - how can he? why should he? - the wounded, mourning man who stands beside him.


	10. Riddle Me This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double drabble written for Sentinel Thursday challenge 550: "neon"

_How is a sentinel like a motel?_

You already know the answer: some days the neon sign (literal, in one case, and metaphorical in the other) flashes 'Vacancy'. How else would you describe the appearance of a zone, after all?

_How is the heart of a sentinel like a motel with faulty wiring?_

You already know the answer to this, too; at least when the sentinel in question is Jim Ellison. The sign blinks in and out, erratic and misleading: 'Vacancy'. 'No Vacancy'. 'Vacancy'. 

'No Vacancy'.

Or maybe it's not so misleading after all: He isn't ready to take that trip, he doesn't trust, he doesn't want — he doesn't need.

But he needs. He wants. And he could _have,_ if he could, would just… fix that faulty wiring. Make sure it's hooked up to the true words — the whispers — of his heart, and not the voices of his past.

'Vacancy'? No. 'No Vacancy'.

_How is Jim Ellison like a motel in tourist season?_

You know this one, too. You've known this one since the very beginning: No matter what the flashing neon sign says outside, inside? Fully occupied. Completely overrun. No cancellations, no refunds, no vacancies.

No vacancy, ever again.


	11. Putting It Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double drabble written for Sentinel Thursday challenge: 523 "stress"

Stress does funny things to people.

Jim gets stressed enough, he shuts down. Shuts down _something:_ his senses, his reactions, his emotions. Everything is contained, is locked down under a defensive shield of ice.

For Blair, on the other hand, everything amps up. He's the opposite of self-contained. Not _uncontained_ , but his reactions and emotions power up, energy revving like a video game granting more firepower, more time, more lives, more everything.

Jim shuts down so he can do what he`needs to do.

Blair amps up so he can do whatever _he_ needs to do.

It's inevitable, really. Yin and yang. Push and pull. Up and down. Two jigsaw puzzle pieces that fit together perfectly.

Jim and Blair fit together perfectly. They don't both of them know it yet, but one day, one day soon, they will. The right kind of stress will hit; Jim's ice will channel Blair's fire and Blair's fire will melt Jim's ice, and they'll slide right into each other: two interlocking puzzle pieces combining to make a new picture. It's inevitable, really it is.

Funny, the things stress is going to do for these two people. One of these days. One day very soon.


	12. Flood Tide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Sentinel Thursday challenge 448 - flood
> 
> SenToo based.
> 
> _There is a tide in the affairs of men,  
>  Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;  
> Omitted, all the voyage of their life  
> Is bound in shallows and in miseries.  
> On such a full sea are we now afloat,  
> And we must take the current when it serves,  
> Or lose our ventures._  
>  — William Shakespeare, _Julius Caesar Act 4, scene 3, 218–224_

Blair's (too) pale and quiet, lying in the hospital bed. He still reeks of chlorine.

(Maybe he always will.)

It makes Jim uncomfortable. Nurses, he talks about, and back rent. Easy, safe.

Blair (on the other hand) talks about a wolf colliding with a jaguar (Blair's not being easy, dammit, not being safe) and Jim's back on his knees beside the fountain, watching in desperation as the wolf — the wolf he killed — turns away, turns and runs the fuck away —

The 'mysterious'. The water's _nice._

This time it's Jim who's drowning.

This time it's Jim who runs the fuck away.


	13. Can't See the Forest for the Trees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for Sentinel Thursday challenge 393 - Forest

By now working on it's ingrained. Essential. A ladder you build rung by rung, a chain of hammered-out links — document, examine, extrapolate, defend — and it's… _huge_. Proof you're not crazy, that you were right to believe in Burton, that the world isn't as…as mundane as it seems to be. As divorced from the pre-civilized — and from the _amazing_ — as it would like to be.

It's justification, vocation, avocation — and celebration. 

It's your _life_. Past, present, and future, rolled up into one.

Jim doesn't get that.

What _you_ don't get — not in time, anyway — is that it's Jim's life too.


	14. Turnover/Steal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for Sentinel Thursday challenge 377, "break"

Sandburg steals the ball from Jawolski and breaks downcourt, drives to the basket alone and lays it up smooth as silk. Homicide calls a time-out.

Smart move: they underestimated how fast and sneaky Sandburg can be.

You can't blame them; you used to do that yourself. You don't anymore, but he still runs around every defense you've got like you're as flat-footed as Jawolski.

"He shoots, he scores," Sandburg crows to a grinning Brown. He's as lit up as the gym's overheads.

You don't have even a prayer of a defense against that. Never will.

The game's in his hands.


	15. In the Jungle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for Sentinel Thursday challenge 352, mistaken identity

_Jungle._ It means survival; hard, ugly, do what needs to be done, a mission to complete. Duty.

_Guard the pass._

_Protect the tribe._

Survive. Guard. Protect. _Duty._

Instinct tells him danger prowls nearby, hidden behind the blue branches and vines and fronds, blending into the blue-black shadows, and watching. Waiting. A sense of threat oils through the jungle air, as impossible to track as wind sliding through leaves but as inescapable as the air itself.

Survive to guard, to protect... When the enemy appears, he's ready. 

_Wolf!_

A clean shot: an arrow in the —

An arrow in...

_— no —_

... _his heart._


	16. Managing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double drabble written for Sentinel Thursday challenge 210 'Row'

Six of them. A neat row on his forearm following the line the knife took. 

Could have been a lot worse. A few stitches, home… yeah, could have been a lot worse than this.

But his fingers are fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. The adrenaline's long gone; he's clumsy because he's tired. And hurting.

And stubborn. He bats your hand away when you move to help. 

He worries you'll think he's weak. He's an idiot. You worry because he's strong.

Strong enough to walk away some day, maybe.

Maybe you're an idiot too, worrying. You could handle that.

You can handle this, anyway. All you have to do is make it not about taking care of him, but about taking _care_ of him -- God knows you want to do both. So your hand slides under his and teases the top button open half a second after you lean in with your first strategic kiss on the sweet curve of his jaw. Close to his mouth, close to the place on his throat that takes all his words away. Good to go, in either direction.

Five more buttons. He won't be worrying, not for a while.

Neither will you.


	17. Fear of Eyeing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Sentinel Thursday challenge 207 'Fear'

Jim needs to wear more clothes. Wear more shirts. And lose the shorts. 

Okay, that's _not_ what you meant. Keep his pants on. That's what you meant. Keep his pants _on_. 

_Baggy_ pants would be good. Baggy shirts. Jackets. Down-filled parkas. Yeah, Jim needs to wear more clothes. 

And fewer towels. 

…That's not what you meant. You meant more robes. Nice long, thick… long, thick -- crap. _Terrycloth_. Nice long, thick terrycloth _robes_. Firmly belted. Tied.

Tied up.

Free association is so not helping you out here. 

_Jim_ is so not helping you out here. He needs to wear more clothes.


	18. Strength

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Sentinel Thursday challenge 200: '200'

He wanted a beer. Or two. Hey --it was his fantasy, he could have beer, right?

Beer and… well, pretty soon, a bathroom.

And his Swiss army knife. Or a bent nail; anything he could pick the lock with.

Or enough muscle to break the stupid door down instead of just dislocating both his stupid shoulders. The whole stupid shoulder-against-the-door thing probably worked better when the door opened _outward_ , anyway. 

Okay, it also probably worked better for ripped jock-types who could bench press 200 pounds. 

Ripped Jim-types. Oh, man. Jim and his muscles would be good to have here right now.

Jim. And his muscles.

_Fantasy._ Beer. A lock pick. Aspirin, thanks to the give-a-guy-a-skull-fracture kink shared by 92.3 percent of the entire criminal element. And more muscle -- fuck, or Jim's nice big gun, firmly attached to Jim's nice big hand. (Jim, who didn't know what he wanted. Not really. _Not yet_.)

Reality? He had his mouth (split lip) and fists (split knuckles) and the heavy Freeport hikers he'd taken off. (Boots as deadly weapons. _Right_.) And Jim. Looking for him.

Get out of this, and he was gonna --

 _Man_. Fantasy?

Gonna get out of this. Gonna find out.


	19. Worth It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Sentinel Thursday challenge 197 'No Pain, No Gain'

Okay, _so_ not fun. But this time, collecting a set of bruises trying to help Jim was maybe… not so bad. 

Not now they were back home, anyway. Because Jim's hands weren't into respecting privacy, they wanted answers; and Jim's questioning hands -- moving down Blair's bare chest now, with Blair's sweater and t-shirt in a heap on the couch -- were leaving trails of fire Blair knew he'd be feeling for weeks after the bruises faded. 

So… not so bad. 

Jim's hands were careful. Slow. Almost -- _God_ \-- lingering.

 _Screw the stupid bruises._ It was worth it. For Jim's hands. Like _this._


End file.
